


On the Playground

by emsloe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Childhood, Cute, Friendship, Innocence, Kid Fic, Kid John, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emsloe/pseuds/emsloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew that the other kids didn’t like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Playground

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been beta read. All errors are my own. I do apologize.

Sherlock knew that the other kids didn’t like him. It didn’t take great deduction skills; the milk, drying in his hair, left over from somebody’s lunch (Sally’s; Andy took it from her) was proof enough of that. But that was okay, because Sherlock had known what was going to happen, and even though he was outnumbered and couldn’t do anything about it, at least it didn’t come as a surprise.

When Mum came to pick him up, he got into the back seat with Mycroft and could feel two sets of disapproving eyes on him. But he said nothing. This wasn’t anything unusual, and besides, commenting on it would cost him his seven-year-old’s dignity. What dignity he still had, anyway.

The next morning, of course, he got ready for school without a word. He’d complained once, fought against the tedium and imprisonment of public school, but he knew he couldn’t be homeschooled anymore. Not since Father died. And his struggling amounted to nothing. So now he went, calmly and quietly, like a good little boy. Mycroft thought his obedience was hilarious.

From the back seat of the car, he squinted at the back of Mycroft’s head from between his forefinger and thumb, pretending to crush it. Until Mycroft got out. And then Mum was driving to the elementary school, where Sherlock’s tormenters were waiting.

That day, it was worse than usual. During recess, he decided to climb a tree in an attempt to avoid the others. He was sitting on a strong branch, legs crossed, hands tight around the rough bark, enjoying the view of the playground, when he saw people beneath him. He closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the taunting— (“Weirdo,” they said, “Freak, Poop-Face, Butthead, Creep,” and he could tell who was making fun of him by the words used, if not the voices themselves). (Making fun of him? This wasn’t fun.)

He felt something sharp jab his leg. Probably a stick. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t speak, and especially didn’t cry. Crying only spurred them on. And besides, it wasn’t dignified.

Then someone jumped up and grabbed the lowest part of his branch, pulling downward. As soon as he felt it tilt beneath him, he tried to move, get out of the way, but he was too clumsy. He fell forward, head slamming into another branch on the way down, legs crumpling beneath him.

There was delighted laughter. Someone poked him with a stick—oh, that was Peter, he could tell by how incessant the jabbing was. Sherlock just sat there, eyes screwed shut, mouth closed tightly. When the others went away, then he would get up and catalogue his injuries. Already, he could feel stinging on his cheek—a cut—and aching on his arms—bruises, but more bruises would be coming, what with Peter’s stick—and a soreness in his legs that was the result of his jarring impact. He didn’t know if he’d twisted anything, and he wanted to see, but he wasn’t going to move until he was left alone. Wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him try to defend himself when he was so clearly outnumbered.

Then he heard a different voice, an unfamiliar voice. Not an adult; another child. And since he didn’t know the voice, it must have been that silent transfer student in his class, the new boy who sat at the back of the room and said nothing, but smiled at everyone, even Sherlock, even when the boy caught Sherlock staring.

“Hey, leave him alone.”

“Why?” Sherlock heard Peter ask. The stick stilled in the boy’s hand.

“It’s not nice. He’s hurt.”

“No, Sherlock doesn’t get hurt,” someone else sniffed. Andy. “He doesn’t feel pain or anything.”

_You’re wrong_ , thought Sherlock. _I have nociceptor nerve endings, just like you do. Idiot._

“He’s a freak,” said Sally vehemently.

“He’s a person. Go away, please.”

The boy’s voice was pleading. And because he was so nice and smiled at everyone and wasn’t as strange as Sherlock, the other children left him alone. They _listened_ to him, even. When Sherlock opened his eyes, all he saw was that gentle face peering down at him.

Was he just _rescued_ by this new student? How embarrassing.

The boy stuffed his hand down his pocket and pulled out a Band-Aid. He fumbled with the wrapper a bit before he got it off, and then he tried to put it on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock leaned back.

“Don’t worry,” the boy said, and stuck the thing on Sherlock’s face anyway. “I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock just looked at him. Indeed, this boy had a plastic stethoscope slung carelessly around his neck—how stupid, those don’t work anyway—and with his pocketful of Band-Aids, aspiring doctor was probable.

Well-meaning, then. But Sherlock knew that this boy didn’t know what kind of person Sherlock was, so that wouldn’t last long. This child would want to be Sherlock’s friend, but only at first. And then Sherlock would hurt his feelings, like he always hurt everyone’s feelings. And then this boy would leave him.

Might as well get that over with.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Sherlock said, and stood up. He noticed that his ankle ached—twisted—and there was gravel stuck in the skin of his knees.

“Hey, you don’t even know me yet,” the boy said. He didn’t look hurt yet. That would change.

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said. “You’re John Watson. You transferred here. You moved from a different city…” Sherlock paused. What city, what city? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know how to figure it out, at least not yet. And why, why did John Watson’s family move? Why? He couldn’t figure that out, either. “You’re nice to people, but it’s not because you want to be accepted. Otherwise you wouldn’t have helped me. No, you felt sorry for me, and you’re the helping sort. But of course, you do want to make friends. You used to have a lot of friends—you used to play outside a lot, and roughly, going by the state of your clothes. If you were alone, you’d play quietly. Nothing that would wear the hems of your sleeves or leave permanent stains on your pants. And since you hate to see people getting hurt, you wouldn’t have tolerated your friends leaving bruises like _that_ —” Sherlock gestured toward John’s arms— “on your skin. But you wouldn’t have bruised yourself, either. You’re careful; you want to be a doctor. Those were left by a family member. Not your parents; your parents clearly love you. I saw your father drop you off; there were no negative emotions between you. So a sibling, then, and a sibling who’s much stronger than you. You have an older brother who picks on you. His name is Harry; your backpack is a hand-me-down from him, because your family isn’t rich, and it has his name embroidered on the side.” Sherlock knows he’s rambling a little. He needs to learn to be more concise. He’ll wrap this up, then. “Your parents don’t know it’s him. There are old bruises _and_ new ones; no one’s making him stop. And unless you want even more bruises, you’ll leave me _alone_.”

John Watson stared at him for a moment, mouth slack.

_Here it comes_ , Sherlock thought. _He’s going to yell at me now. He’s going to tell me there’s something wrong with me_.

“That was awesome!” John exclaimed. A wide smile spread across his face, and his tanned cheeks dimpled. “Wow! You’re really smart. Do that again! What about… erm, what about her, over there? Do her next. Oh, or him, there.”

It took Sherlock a moment to figure out what to say. He wasn’t expecting _admiration_ , of all things. 

“Did I get it all right?” he asked finally.

“Well, not all of it. Harry’s my sister. But other than that, you’re right.”

Sherlock knew he wasn’t always right. It was a hit-and-miss thing, and he still had a lot to learn. But other than that. He did well enough.

“Oh,” he said.

John picked up Peter’s stick from where it had been dropped on the ground. Sherlock cringed, preparing to run, but John just stuck it in one of his belt loops.

“I’ll use it to protect you,” John said, and nodded to himself.

After that, Sherlock couldn’t shake John off. On the playground, John was always armed with a branch, which he never used against Sherlock but sometimes jabbed at Sherlock’s tormenters to keep them away.

After a time, Sherlock stopped wanting John to leave him alone. John was useful. John defended him. John didn’t hate him. John smiled at him and sat at his table and colored with him, and if someone _did_ corner Sherlock while John was briefly away, John would come back with paper towels and Band-Aids and the branch of a cherry tree to brandish at the attackers. And John thought Sherlock was smart, not weird.

More than that, Sherlock _liked_ John. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t just tolerate John’s presence, he enjoyed it. It was odd.

Mycroft noticed, of course. He noticed that something had changed almost immediately, Sherlock could tell, but Mycroft didn’t say anything until Sherlock and John had known each other for weeks. Then, in the car one day, he said, “You should invite that boy over.”

Sherlock shook his head, and Mycroft didn’t comment further.

Though Sherlock liked John, he was still a bit wary when John asked if he wanted to come over after school one day. What if it was a trap? No, he could tell it wasn’t. What if he ran into John’s older sister? What would Sherlock’s mother say?

“Harry won’t hurt you,” John said seriously, as if reading Sherlock’s mind. “My parents can call your parents and see if it’s okay. If you want.”

And so Sherlock agreed. And then playing together after school became a regular thing.

 

Sherlock and John were having a sleepover at John’s house. It was getting dark, but they had a few minutes before bed, and they were sitting outside. Looking up at the stars. John pointed out constellations to Sherlock and explained that the sun was a star (which Sherlock didn’t know. But Sherlock didn’t care). Sherlock, rather than looking at the sky, was just looking at John.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John said suddenly. “We’ll stay friends for a long time, right?”

“Friends?” Sherlock repeated, musing. Was that what they were?

“Yeah. When I go learn to be a doctor, will you come with? Please? I want you to come.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“Why?”

“’Cause I like you, stupid,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock was silent for a long time, long enough for John to look at him worriedly and ask if he was okay.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, finally. “When I’m a consulting detective, will you help me?” _I’ll be married to my work. But you could be married to my work, too. Polygamy._

“Okay,” John said happily, and squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “I will. Promise.”


End file.
